


Beginning Again in the Middle, Sort Of

by samofwinter (somedizzywhore)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, M/M, Some pining, Virgin Sherlock, relationship plotting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-13
Updated: 2014-03-13
Packaged: 2018-01-15 13:46:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1307005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somedizzywhore/pseuds/samofwinter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After John's marriage finally goes bottom's up, leaving him back at what feels like square one, John realizes that he might be much closer to having what he's always wanted than he actually thought.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beginning Again in the Middle, Sort Of

**Author's Note:**

> So I've been reading fanfic forever, and have the tepid beginnings of dozens of fics of my own started on my computer. This is the first one I've actually finished, and I'm hardly happy with it but I'm putting it up anyway, just to get it out there. To all the incredible fic writers out there, I admire you so much more now than I ever did, and I've always admired you.
> 
> Best ever,  
> samofwinter

“This is complete bollocks,” said John as he stomped up the stairs to 221B, a scowl on his face and a large cardboard box in his hands. Sherlock cast a wary glance up at him from the bottom of the stairs, where he was adjusting his grasp on another box. “Somebody up there must be really pissed off at me. Seriously. What have I done?” 

John huffed his way into the sitting room, dropped the box on the floor and kicked it roughly toward the second flight of stairs. Sherlock came in behind him and set the second box delicately upon the first. John leaned heavily against his armchair, shaking his head.

“Seriously, Sherlock. This is...” John let out a long sigh and glanced toward the ceiling. “This is just too much.” Sherlock nodded, looking evenly at John.

“I know, John. I'm sorry.” 

“I mean... I'm not even upset right now, I'm just angry. And tired. I'm so fucking tired.”

Now Sherlock sighed, dropping his gaze to the floor and gently flexing his hand.

“John, If I had known...” John shook his head.

“No, don't. It's not your fault.” John rubbed the back of his neck, looked toward the door. “It's just, she shot you, right? And I was ready to leave, I would have left her. But you vouched for her, and she fought, I mean, she pulled out all the stops to keep me. And it turns out she was cheating on me the whole time? With David, of all people. And now you say she worked for Moriarty and was supposed to kill me. I mean, Jesus. She knew all of this, and on top of it all, she was trying to pass another man's baby off as mine. Of all the bloody cheek.”

John banged his fist down on the top of the armchair, still shaking his head and grimacing. Sherlock was standing awkwardly by the boxes and shifting from one foot to the other, clearly uncertain how he should respond. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but then shut it again, looking askance at John. He reopened his mouth.

“When I vouched for her,” said Sherlock, finally, “that was wrong of me. I thought...” He paused, patted the top of the box. “It was a moment of desperation, I needed to keep you safe and I didn't know what she might do. And... I thought you needed her to be happy.” John nodded and twisted his mouth to one side, not looking at Sherlock but also not deliberately looking away from him. “I was also bleeding internally at the time, you might recall. Not really at my best, so a little leniency would be appreciated.”

John gave a brief huff of laughter. 

“Neither was I, really. Me a trained doctor and I nearly let you die in front of me. Again. So it's leniency all around, I think.” 

Sherlock smiled. “It's a deal.”

They both stood awkwardly for a few seconds, neither quite sure where to look. John cleared his throat. 

“Um, we should probably go get the rest of the boxes.” John shoved himself off the back of the armchair and moved toward the stairs, checking briefly over his shoulder to make sure Sherlock was following.

“I'm surprised the cabbie hasn't been honking. This is a great opportunity to use one of Mycroft's cards.”

“Ha, normally I'd say no, but I'm pretty peeved at him right now. He kicked me out of my house.”

“Well, it's evidence, John. Your house was harboring a known fugitive.”

“Which just epitomizes my bloody luck.”

***

An hour later, most of the boxes had been moved up to John's room, and John was repopulating his closet while intermittent clatters and bangs were coming from down the stairs. Some experiment. John wasn't sure what, exactly, but it sounded like Sherlock was moving things around. Well, as long as he doesn't make too much of mess, thought John, though he knew that was a tall order. 

John hung up his final shirt, a worn-out plaid thing, and fingered the cuff for a second. This was the shirt he'd met Mary in. He briefly considered tossing it away. 

But no; over there was the shirt he was wearing when he proposed. And he wore that shirt on their first date. All of these shirts were associated with Mary, in some way or another, and he couldn't very well get rid of every shirt he had. Besides, all of these shirts were also associated with Sherlock, weren't they. Though that could be good or bad depending on context. That pale shirt for instance. He should definitely get rid of that.

John shook his head and closed the closet door. He took a step back and sat heavily on his bed, not made up yet, still just a bare mattress. He looked around at the bare walls, the empty bedside table, the lack of furnishing, and felt a small amount of dread at the idea of filling up that space, of having to choose what to put where, and having to make his mark, yet again, on a new home. How many more times, he thought, will I have to start over?

He felt tired. He felt like he could lie down on the floor and his bones would sink down and meld with the hardwood, and he could just sleep and feel heavy and anchored. Just a few months ago, just after the marriage, he'd thought he had the rest of his life figured out, thought that he was on the final trajectory. A wife, a baby, a best friend who actually seemed invested in the friendship; a happy future, with everything he had ever thought he had wanted. Now he seemed to be caught in a time warp, where everything he'd built in the past three years was reduced to rubble and banished to the nether realms, tarnished not only in life but in his memory, and he himself had been kicked back several years and was moving back into Baker Street. Starting over. 

A particularly loud crash emanated from below and John passed a hand over his eyes. Another crash followed almost immediately, as well as a startled yell. John stood up swiftly and hurried down the stairs.

“Sherlock, what the hell are you doing? I've been here barely two hours and already you're... Oh.” 

His remaining boxes, the ones he'd left in the sitting room, were unpacked. His books had been moved to the shelves. His kitchen implements seemed to have been moved into the kitchen. His few assorted knick-knacks had been moved into prominent areas of display. And Sherlock himself was sitting in the middle of the room, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, rubbing his head and looking at John with a peeved expression. Beside him was a rather cheap lamp of John's, lying sideways, and still in two pieces. 

“You unpacked,” said John, arms crossed and mouth a little agape. Sherlock sniffed and stood up, still holding his head in one hand. He gestured dismissively around the room with the other hand.

“It wasn't a problem. You barely own anything. A holdover from your army days, I presume.” 

John nodded, though truthfully he'd never been one to hold on to things. Unsentimental. He pointed at the lamp.

“Having a bit of trouble, I see.”

Sherlock glared down at the lamp accusingly. “It's defective. Won't go together in the middle. Where did you get this appalling thing, John?”

“Ah, Ikea. I think I'll put it up in my room, though.” 

“I agree. It clashes horribly with the décor in here. And I'd rather not look at it. I'm presently trying to fight the temptation to smash the thing to bits.” 

John chuckled, and suddenly felt a little lighter than he had in his room just a few moments before. Sherlock chuckled back at him, and finally removed his hand from his head, where John could now see a rather large egg-shaped lump and a small cut. He moved forward to get a closer look.

“Ouch, that looks like it hurt a bit. Side of the lamp shade?” Sherlock nodded. “You should put ice on that. Hold on a second.”

John went into the kitchen and hesitated for a moment before opening the freezer, unsure about what he would find. After all, Sherlock had been alone in the flat, he could put whatever he liked in the freezer. But when he opened it up, nothing gruesome immediately accosted his vision, though there was a sizable box to the left with a label declaring the contents to be “body parts.” On the right was, miracle of miracles, a stack of actual frozen foodstuffs. Well. That was a surprise. John grabbed a bag of peas, ripped off a paper towel and wet it briefly in the sink, and turned back to Sherlock, who was watching him from the sitting room. 

John gestured toward Sherlock's armchair with the paper towel. “Just sit, I'll clean that up. Head wounds, you know. Look worse than they are.” Sherlock nodded and sat down, looking up at John with a curiously blank look on his face as John walked over and reached out to dab at the cut. “This won't take long. I'll just.. get the blood off...” John put the peas down on the side of the armchair and reached up with to gently hold Sherlock's head in place with the tips of his fingers as he rubbed as lightly as he could with the towel. Sherlock's eyes fluttered closed and he winced. “Sorry, that bit had started to dry... There, you're good. Just press these to it and the swelling should go down.”

John backed away and went to sit in his own chair. Sherlock picked up the peas and draped them over his forehead, reclining back on his chair so that his head was supported.

“That's the last time I help anyone unpack,” Sherlock griped, “it is obviously a hazardous occupation.”

John nodded in agreement. “Yeah, I dropped a jar of coins on my foot earlier. Should have heard me howl.” He looked around the room again. With all his stuff in it, it looked like... his. And Sherlock's, obviously, mostly Sherlock's, but it also looked like his. His house with Mary hadn't looked like his. Most of this stuff had already been in boxes, actually. 

He looked back at Sherlock, who was drumming his hands on the chair arms and staring up at the ceiling. 

“Sherlock...” 

Sherlock looked down from the ceiling. “Hmm?”

“Thank you. For unpacking. And for...” John thought for a second about how to word this. “For giving me a solid place to land. I know I've been sort of angry, and upset, and I haven't really thanked you yet. But I'm... really grateful. I'm not sure what I would have done, you know, if I had to start all over from scratch.”

Sherlock sat up, reaching up to hold his cold pack in place. His look at John was thoughtful, but there was something else there that John couldn't place. Consternation? Maybe even sadness? But why?

“John,” he began, continuing to look rather intently at John, who was beginning to feel a little self conscious. “There is no need to thank me. This is your home as much as mine.” Sherlock leaned back again with a sigh and gently closed his eyes. “Wherever I live, actually, you have a place there. I will never turn you away.” 

For a stunning moment, John couldn't breathe.

He was floored. He knew that Sherlock cared about him, in his own way at least, but he'd never expected Sherlock to go out of his way to carve out a space for him, as he clearly had with the flat. His stuff on the shelves, food in the freezer, and carte blanche to live with Sherlock for the rest of his life, should he want to. Suddenly his mind flashed back to his wedding, to Sherlock's speech, and to that indescribably, agonizing look Sherlock had given him on the dance floor, before he disappeared. And of course there were those words on the tarmac. Whenever John had previously thought about these moments, all he seemed to come up with were computational errors, or impossible conclusions. With the preponderance of evidence, however, the impossible was beginning to look rather possible.

John wasn't sure what to say. He briefly inspected his fingernails, cracked his knuckles, picked lint off his sweater. 

“Hungry?” Sherlock asked, still looking up at the ceiling.

“Very much so,” said John, grateful for the distraction. 

“Angelo's, I think. To celebrate... well. Commemorate.” 

John merely shrugged at the faux pas as Sherlock bounded out of his chair toward the door. Quite suddenly, he felt as if he did want to celebrate. Maybe this wasn't quite a new start, he mused, shrugging on his coat, as much as a chance to continue on a path that had been abandoned and considered lost forever. He gazed thoughtfully at Sherlock's lean, energetic form as it bounded down the stairs ahead of him. 

***

The next few days were blissfully uneventful, in John's opinion, though Sherlock was champing at the bit without a case. John was still working at the practice, and he was now preoccupied with resumes as well as patients, seeing as how they were now down an employee, and boy was explaining that fun. It involved a lot of lying. 

So his workdays were long, and in the evenings he came back to Baker Street to find Sherlock moping on the couch, or fiddling with beakers and specimens, or scratching at his violin. John had forgotten just how loud Sherlock could be, and it was really strange to suddenly have this very vocal, present companion when he'd got so used to tip-toeing and loaded silences. It was an adjustment, but not a difficult one. John marveled at how nice it was to just coexist with someone, without a constant power struggle and the strenuous attempt to adapt himself to another person's constraint. With Sherlock, John could just exist. He didn't have to be the good husband, the good friend, the good employee; Sherlock would see through all of that anyway. Sherlock set the tone by being Sherlock, so John was free to be John. 

And when there was conflict, there was no pussyfooting around the issue, no weighty glances or “polite” observations. When John had an issue with Sherlock, he knew he could go ahead and have a good old squeak and gibber and sometimes he might even get what he wanted. Sherlock, of course, always felt free to voice his complaints. 

Although, John thought, he hadn't actually heard a single complaint from Sherlock since he'd moved back in four days ago, other than the standard whine about how bored he was. And John himself had not had very much to yell about, all told. Really, there was just the one mild protestation about the bugs stuck on cards lined up on the kitchen counter and John had barely even raised his voice for that. It was exceptionally eerie, thought John, but he hadn't yet had one major complaint, or thought once that maybe he had made a mistake in moving back in.

Sherlock was also strangely chatty. If John was at Baker Street, and awake, Sherlock was probably there, nattering on about something to him. Sherlock had made a point of deducing his day at work every night thus far. He talked to John about his experiments, regaled him with tales of cases John missed, and complained about Mycroft. When John turned on the television in the evenings, Sherlock would sit with him on the sofa and deduce at the screen. It was almost, thought John, as if he were making up for lost time. Or as if he were trying to prove just how good a friend he could be. Sherlock was even eating whenever John did, which really turned John's head. It was sort of touching. It was also really weird and John was really hoping for a case or something to reset Sherlock back to default. 

So John was both relieved and excited to come home from work that Friday and find Sherlock pacing by the door, coat and scarf on, typing furiously on his phone. 

“Don't bother taking your coat off,” said Sherlock, still texting, as John walked in the door, “we're leaving at once. We have a case.”

John smiled, setting his briefcase down by the door. “So what are we-” He was abruptly cut off by a hand in his face. Rude as always.

Sherlock brought his hand back to his phone and tapped something in with a flourish. He pivoted toward John, slightly manic look on his face.

“Homicide. Cause of death uncertain, someone managed to strap the body onto the face of Big Ben though. Not sure it will pose much of a challenge, but it's unusual, I'll give the killer that; if it was even the killer who put it there.”

“But why would someone else-”

“Precisely, but the pictures are odd, I'll explain on the way.” 

A minute later they were in a cab, racing toward the most unusual crime scene they'd seen that year, and John felt the rising excitement in his gut come on like a tidal wave, threatening to drown out everything else, just as it always did. Sherlock was talking animatedly beside him, hands moving frenetically, eyes glinting, and John could only look at him and marvel. And then watching Sherlock race around the crime scene; could it be this easy, John wondered? Could it be this easy to put Mary behind him, to have the events of just last week feel so distant and even unreal? Maybe so. John let himself stand a little closer to Sherlock than he might usually, felt praise bubbling up out of him with even greater frequency than average, let the darkness of the previous year get swallowed up by Sherlock's immense light, even if it was just for the duration of this one case. 

Four hours later, they had a suspect and were on a stakeout. This was an even easier case than Sherlock had thought, but they were both practically vibrating with excitement, shoulder to shoulder on the ground, peering beneath a wooden fence at the suspect's house. And when the suspect passed just feet by them, clearly showing Sherlock his incriminating shoes and trouser cuffs, John was ready. John was beyond ready, and barely three minutes into the ensuing chase John had taken the murderer down with the most expertly executed flying tackle that he'd performed since playing rugby at university. 

Lestrade told them off, of course, when he came to collect the killer, but John could hardly make himself care. Was he an adrenaline junkie? Sure. And catching criminals with Sherlock was more engaging than anything he had ever done with his wife, sex included. Not to mention, she never looked at him the way Sherlock looked at him when he took that man down, with such open appreciation and admiration.

They sat inches apart in the cab ride home, and John noticed that Sherlock was shooting him little glances out of the corner of his eyes, just little looks that betrayed little, could have meant anything, but John felt his heart beat a little faster, and he felt... strangely sure.

He thought, this is moving a little fast.

But maybe no. If he was just taking up where they'd left off, when they'd still been living together, then perhaps this is just where they would be, just this close to bursting. Even though John had been sure it was one-sided then. 

He let his hand fall off of his lap into the space between them. His little finger brushed the side of Sherlock's thigh, casually enough to pass it off as accidental. Sherlock shot him one of those sideways glances and sucked in a tiny breath. John let himself look back and gave Sherlock a little smile which Sherlock hesitantly returned, his eyes tightened in barely-perceptible confusion. 

John picked his hands up, stretched them, and put them back on his lap. He continued smiling, but kept his gaze face forward, suddenly feeling very resolute. Slowly, he thought, but not too slowly. He marked the way Sherlock's gaze followed him around the flat that night, as they ate Chinese food and cracked jokes and giggled, and he knew he had enough evidence to go on.

***

Weeks passed. Cases were solved. Blog posts were written. Overly inquisitive comments were summarily deleted. 

Some nights John woke up panting, visions of a demonic child and a cold, heartless gaze still lingering from his nightmares. In moments like these John wondered what had become of her, of them. What would happen to the baby that might have been his? Mycroft told him that Mary had been granted immunity in exchange for pertinent information, and that she had left the country under a new alias, to be closely monitored in the future. John wasn't sure that he believed him but he would have liked to.

During the day, however, John put it out of his mind. As far as he was concerned, past was past, and he was happier now, anyway. Although, it was rather hard explaining that to the streams of well-wishers who had been calling him the past few weeks, expecting to find him busted up and heartbroken. He'd worked his explanation into a single sentence, delivered with a cheery tone and a cheeky grin; “Well, turns out the baby wasn't mine and then she up and emigrated.” A few were disturbed to find him so blasé about it all, and some very unsubtly suggested therapy, but how was John to explain that, really, he'd had months to come to terms with the hopelessness of their marriage, and the fact that Mary was a psychopathic killer? 

No. That would make matters much worse. 

He also didn't think people would understand that, frankly, he much preferred living it up with his crazy detective flatmate to being married. Not mentioning it didn't stop people from noticing it, however.

“So non-married life is suiting you well, then,” smirked Lestrade over a pint. They had just come off a rather disappointing case. Sherlock flounced back to Baker Street in a huff, and John decided to steer clear for a while, so he and Lestrade found themselves a quiet little corner in the nearest pub and were catching up a bit. A choice he might regret, he thought, if this turned into a third degree. 

“Eh,” replied John, shrugging as nonchalantly as he could managed, “when the new doesn't work, go back to the tried-and-true, I say.” He took a long sip of his pint, pointedly avoiding Lestrade's scrutinizing stare.

“Tried-and true?” Lestrade asked, incredulous. “He fake-committed suicide in front of you. And that's your high-bar for success.” 

“Well, at this point, yes,” said John truthfully. “And he's better, since. You know that.” Lestrade nodded. 

“He is at that. He remembered my birthday, did I tell you? No?” Lestrade tapped the edge of his glass, looking thoughtful. “I mean, it wasn't much. He didn't contact me on the actual day, but at the very stroke of midnight he sent me a text saying something like, 'I'm bored, it's no longer your birthday, I need a case.'” Lestrade shook his head in exasperation and John laughed. “Crazy bugger. You mellow him out though.” 

John snorted. “Barely.”

“Not barely,” Lestrade protested. “He used to be the bane of my bloody life. Stormed onto crime scenes, couldn't bother to be polite, made people cry. Constantly. And, you know, drugs.” Lestrade paused, bit his lip, clearly contemplating what to say next. “He talks to you, you know. When you're not there.”

John shuffled nervously in his seat, not entirely sure where this was going. “Yeah, he's mentioned. Gets irritated when I don't pick up things he's asked for.” 

“So you do know.” Lestrade looked at him curiously. “I only first saw him do it when he'd just come back. You weren't talking to him yet. He brought Molly along on a case.” John stared at him. Lestrade grinned. “Yeah, I was surprised too. But he started talking to you a couple minutes in, gave us a good scare. I thought he was having a psychotic break.” 

John let out a long breath through his nose, his look at Lestrade incredulous. “Has he done it at all since?”

“Yeah, a couple times, when you were doing something with the wife. He was quieter about it though, made me less worried. I think he just has a really active inner life, you know, and it bleeds out sometimes.”

John nodded. “That's his mind palace, yeah. Helps him call up information.” 

They were both getting toward the bottom of their pints. John debated whether or not to offer to buy another round, unsure as to whether or not they might talk about anything other than Sherlock. Although, what else was there, really? Oh, right. 

“So how's Molly?” he asked slyly, and snickered as Lestrade's eyes went wide and he choked on his sip of beer. “Don't get annoyed, turnabout's fair play. Tell you what, I'll buy us another round and you'll dish up.”

“Agreed,” replied Lestrade, and the night went on, and it turned out that Molly was doing quite well, actually, and so was Lestrade. They bought another two rounds and were a little wobbly as they finally left the pub, grinning and slapping each other on the back. 

“Listen,” said Lestrade before they parted ways, “take good care of him.” 

John scoffed. “What, take care of Sherlock? He should be taking care of me, I'm the one whose wife left.” 

Lestrade reached out to grip his arm. “No, look, I'm serious. You have to take care of him. He's... fragile.” John busted up into giggles. Lestrade laughed a little with him. “I know, it sounds ridiculous.” He sighed. “I think he's in love with you.”

John suddenly sobered up, heart leaping unbidden to his throat. He nodded, looking down at the ground.

“Yeah,” he said softly, “yeah, I know.”

Lestrade fumbled around in his coat and fished out a pack of cigarettes.

“Sorry,” he said, opening the pack, “I probably shouldn't have said anything.” He put the cigarette up to his mouth and lit it as John shuffled his feet and looked anxiously down the road. “Are you going to stay with him?” asked Lestrade.

“Yeah,” replied John. “I think I am.”

Lestrade smiled. “Good,” he said, “that's good.” 

They shook hands, promised to see each other soon, walked off in different directions. John took the Tube home, for once, holding tightly onto a pole and letting himself rock gently back and forth. His thoughts moved rapidly but not frantically, and he just accepted the way his heart sped up as he approached the flat, not in panic but in anticipation. 

Sherlock was at the kitchen table when John walked in, hunched over his microscope, a stack of samples at his left elbow. His hair was more of a mess than usual, and he had on his maroon dressing gown over his usual attire. He briefly looked up when John walked in, quirking the corner of his mouth in acknowledgment, before looking back into the lens, agile hands twiddling at the dials, clearly too absorbed in what he was doing to deduce John's night out. He was beautiful, thought John, and didn't feel any need to censor himself for the first time in ages.

He walked into the kitchen, heart still pounding, and poured himself a glass of water to take up to bed. And as he passed on his way out of the kitchen toward the stairs, he reached out and gently touched the back of Sherlock's neck, just a little brush of his fingers on the fringe of Sherlock's curls. He could sense but didn't actually see Sherlock's shocked stare as he crossed the sitting room, smiling the whole way. He fell asleep quickly that night and had especially good dreams.

***

If John had hoped that that one small act of affection would break down the barriers of Sherlock's emotional reticence and prompt some sort of confession, he was very wrong. The next day, Sherlock was, if not quite terse, then certainly more reserved. John worried at first that maybe he'd misinterpreted before, but he spent the whole morning with that prickling sensation of being watched and he caught Sherlock quickly turning his head away from him more than once. 

It was the definition of a lazy Sunday morning. John had woken up relatively late, close to nine, had showered and dressed leisurely, fried up some eggs and toast and had spent more than an hour reading the paper while sipping tea and trying to ignore the tense fidgeting of Sherlock over in the other chair. “Lazy Sunday morning” was also the definition of everything that Sherlock hated in the world, of course, and after John had folded up the paper and cleaned up after himself in the kitchen, he leaned over Sherlock's shoulder and saw that he was looking through his website for potential cases. 

“What's that one?” he asked, pointing at the screen. “With the subject heading 'vanished refrigerator.” 

“Boring,” replied Sherlock, waving one hand and scrolling down with the other.

“I wouldn't think it was boring if it happened to me,” commented John mildly. “It's hard work moving a refrigerator. And dealing with all the food. I guess if you were stealing a fridge, you'd just leave the food on the victim's kitchen floor. It'd probably all go bad. Shame.”

Sherlock paused, and then scrolled back up to look at the message. He read through it briefly and then looked back at John.

“You're right,” he said with a smile, and John felt his tummy get warm with pride. “Not boring at all. Whoever took the fridge took it contents and all, and the victim...” he glanced back at the email. “Mrs. Halloran. She claims there are no scuffs on the floors or the door frames, and that, in fact, it appears as if there never was a refrigerator at all. Fascinating.”

“Didn't she call the police?” asked John, straining to see the email. He might need to get his eyes checked out, he thought. 

Sherlock nodded in affirmation. “They told her that they couldn't even determine if there had been a burglary. Idiots.” 

“I guess we should go pay her a visit,” said John, giving Sherlock's shoulder a warm squeeze before pushing off the back of Sherlock's chair to go grab his jacket. Behind him there was a pause in which Sherlock seemed to not be moving. John was about to turn around to check when he heard the click of the laptop shutting (his laptop, actually) and Sherlock strode toward the door. John leaned against the door and watched as Sherlock expertly did up his scarf and twirled his coat on.

“Got the address?” he asked.

“Hmm,” replied Sherlock, pulling his gloves on. 

“Okay then.” 

John moved to open the door.

“John...” Sherlock's voice was low, hesitant.

John turned back around. Sherlock stared at him intently for a second before dropping his gaze, and gesturing vaguely. John waited briefly for him to continue but Sherlock pressed past him and opened the door, proceeding to practically pour down the stairs. John took a deep breath and then followed him. Later, then.

***

The refrigerator case was quite interesting, actually, and John had a ball watching Sherlock crawl around Mrs. Halloran's kitchen floor until he looked up at the ceiling suddenly and clapped his hands together, making one of his best deduction faces. The ceiling panels, of course, were removable. The upstairs neighbor had house-sat for her a week prior, just after his own refrigerator had broken down. Dead broke and struck with sudden malevolent inspiration, he'd sawed through his own floor and heaved the refrigerator up with an elaborate pulley system. Bizarre, thought John, increasingly baffled by human behavior. Sherlock was delighted, of course, and was perhaps too admiring of the pulley contraption when they went upstairs to confront the culprit. The refrigerator was restored, the culprit was turned into the landlord, and Mrs. Halloran granted them a generous payment, a lemon pie, and her sincerest thanks, all within the span of two hours. 

It was a sunny day, remarkably, although a bit chilly, and they walked back toward Baker Street in a leisurely fashion, Sherlock making comments about the passersby and John laughing. The tension from earlier seemed to have dissipated, and Sherlock was loose and happy after solving a neat little problem. 

John ducked briefly into a coffee shop to pick up some stimulation while Sherlock stayed outside, texting someone, either Mycroft or Lestrade, an irritated expression on his face. It was quiet for that time of day in the shop, and John gave a bright smile to the lady at the counter as he ordered (two coffees, one with sugar, one without) and she smiled back. Mid thirties, put-together, confident; the proprietor, John deduced. They made brief chit chat as she got the coffees together, and he was surprised and flattered when she slid a slip of paper with a number on it across the counter to him, along with the coffee and a saucy wink. John tucked the number into his front pocket, smiling at the unexpected attention. His smile grew broader as he turned toward the door and saw that Sherlock was watching him from outside, texting spree over. 

He walked up to Sherlock, added spring in his step, and handed Sherlock his coffee. Sherlock took it without comment and started walking again immediately, suddenly tense and removed like he had been earlier. John sighed and jogged a bit to catch up with him. Probably a text from Mycroft, he thought. That was apt to put Sherlock in a funk, and it was a shame, really, because Sherlock should at least have a little bit longer to enjoy a post-mystery high. But no, the rest of the walk home was made in near silence, John's attempts at conversation rebuffed. 

When they arrived home, Sherlock almost immediately flopped down on the couch, arranging himself on his back with his fingers steepled under his chin. Thinking, then. John leisurely hung up his jacket, grabbed his laptop off of Sherlock's chair and went to sit in his own. He checked up his email and then pulled up his blog, considering what to call the refrigerator case. 

“Are you going to call her?” asked Sherlock suddenly, after some time. John paused his typing mid-sentence. So that's what he'd been in a strop about. How did he even... well, he was Sherlock. Of course he knew. He glanced over at Sherlock, who was still lying in the same position, staring straight up at the ceiling. 

“No,” he responded, gaze held evenly at Sherlock, “No I'm not.”

Sherlock looked over at him sharply, clearly not anticipating that answer.

“Why?” he asked. “You liked her. You were clearly happy to get her number. Oh-” Sherlock paused, looked back up at the ceiling. “Too soon after Mary, I suppose. Not ready for any new commitment. My apologies.” John watched as Sherlock's eyes closed, amazed that Sherlock could have read that so wrong. He took a deep breath, trying to formulate a clear reply. 

“No, it's not that,” he started, closing his laptop and putting it down. “Commitment is fine, I just wasn't interested. And I was flattered, is why I was happy to get her number.” He chuckled. “When you're my age and short, any attention is apt to brighten your day.”

There was a long pause. 

“Next time you get a number perhaps you should call it,” Sherlock finally said, and it sounded casual but John noticed that Sherlock was clenching a fist on his chest, and he was still looking up at the ceiling. “It could be good for you.” 

“No,” said John, “I don't think I'll want to.” Sherlock made a little frustrated sound.

“You say that now-”

“No,” repeated John insistently. “I won't want to. Not now, not ever.” He took a deep breath, saw that Sherlock was finally looking at him, eyes sharp but confused. “I've already recommitted myself, you see. Or rather, I was already committed.” John could see the penny start to drop. “You said I could live with you for the rest of your life.” John took a deep breath. If he was wrong about this... no, he wasn't wrong about this, he was almost certain. “If you don't mind, I think I will.” 

Sherlock looked thunderstruck. John waited for him to respond but he seemed frozen solid, completely incapable of speech or movement. John slowly got up and walked over to the couch, Sherlock staring at him the whole way. John sat delicately on the end of the sofa by Sherlock's feet, body angled toward him. 

“Is that alright?” he asked, and Sherlock finally unfroze.

“Yes,” he said, scrambling to sit up against the far edge of the sofa, pulling his feet in toward himself. He dragged a nervous hand across his thigh. “Yes, I... John, I should really say...”

John smiled. “That Sherlock is a girl's name, yeah, I know.” 

Sherlock laughed suddenly, and it seemed to release something in him, his shoulders relaxing and his legs stretching out again toward John. “Well yes,” he responded, “quite.” He took a deep breath. “John, you have to understand that this isn't exactly my area of expertise. I'm not... certain... of how I should act. Now, for example. What do I do?” Sherlock's voice had descended into a low rumble, and that combined with the look of nervy intensity on Sherlock's face as he stared at John sent a shiver scurrying down John's spine. 

John edged in closer to Sherlock, and reached out and held one of the hands fidgeting on Sherlock's knees and gently caressed with his thumb. Sherlock's breath hitched and his eyes fluttered and it was all John could do to keep himself from pouncing immediately. “You can do whatever you like,” he said, trying and failing to keep his tone light. 

Sherlock shifted his legs off the sofa and scooted closer to John, being careful not to dislodge John's hand from his. He looked briefly at John's mouth and then back up. 

“May I?” he asked, already leaning in. 

“Please do,” said John, moving forward to meet him. 

The kiss was soft, featherlight, lips just barely touching for the first few seconds before John pressed forward, catching Sherlock's lower lip and gently sucking, causing Sherlock to take in a quick breath of air through his nose and bring his hands up to waver uncertainly before landing on John's chest, twisting in John's jumper. John brought one hand up to the back of Sherlock's neck and placed the other possessively on Sherlock's waist, pulling Sherlock forward and deepening the kiss, coaxing Sherlock's mouth open and gently licking behind Sherlock's front teeth.

Sherlock gasped and pulled away briefly, but quickly moved further forward, effectively straddling John, and buried his head in John's neck. He just sat there and breathed for a brief moment, and John thought that Sherlock was smelling him, just like he had wanted to do to Sherlock so many times and God he could do that now. He plunged his face into Sherlock's hair and breathed in deeply, dragging a hand roughly up Sherlock's side and then back down to the small of his back, hesitating briefly, before pressing down just further, dipping the tips of his fingers just into the top of Sherlock's trousers.

Sherlock gave a soft moan, and pressed his mouth to John's neck, first just gently touching his tongue to John's pulse, feeling the thud thud thud and tasting, then he bit down, sucked, licked. John tilted his head back against the sofa to give Sherlock greater access, and Sherlock quickly took the fullest advantage of that, kissing up John's throat and coming to suck and nibble on the soft skin just under John's ear. John groaned and involuntarily tilted his pelvis upward, and if there was any doubt that they wanted this before, there certainly wasn't now.

They were kissing again, fiercely, and Sherlock was sneaking a hand up under John's shirt and caressing the lower part of John's trembling stomach, prompting John, in turn, to pull Sherlock's shirt out of his trousers and let his fingers drift to that tantalizing row of buttons. He reluctantly pulled himself out of the kiss, panting roughly, and met Sherlock's gaze, which he was shocked to see was glazed over, pupils dilated with arousal, eyelids heavy, lashes drifting slowly up and down. It was more seductive than anything else John had ever seen. Except maybe Sherlock's mouth, which was parted, gasping, kiss swollen, and completely wanton. 

“Should we?” asked John, brushing the top of Sherlock's trousers, not even caring just how wrecked he sounded. 

Sherlock huffed impatiently and wriggled in John's lap, causing John to gasp sharply and arch his head back. 

“Of course we should,” Sherlock replied. He leaned forward and gently nipped at John's upper lip before pulling back again. He smiled softly. “Do you know how long I've been waiting for this? To touch you, kiss you, hear you moan...” Sherlock pressed his hand down and cupped it gently over John's straining erection, pressing just ever so much, and John did moan. Sherlock gave a wicked little grin. “John,” he continued, and his voice was so low and desperate and sensual that John thought he might come right then and there, “if you think that I have any interest in waiting even another second you're even more of an idiot then I think you are.”

John laughed softly. “Just checking.”

“Good.”

Then they were kissing again, and both were eagerly undoing buttons, so many buttons, why couldn't there be fewer buttons, and then John was pushing Sherlock's crisp white shirt off of his trembling shoulders and pressing messages of devotion into his heaving chest while his fingers worked at Sherlock's fly, pulling the zipper down and then reverently dragging down the fabric over Sherlock's erection. 

Sherlock's own maneuverings suddenly stuttered and came to a halt, as he gently closed his eyes and let out a long, shaky sigh.

“If you start now,” he murmured, “I'll never even get your shirt off.”

“I'll wait,” replied John, and leaned back to let Sherlock recollect and continue, reveling in the deliberate, precise movements of Sherlock's elegant hands over his chest. Sherlock seemed to not be able to decide whether he wanted to rush through the undressing or really take his time and savor it, so there was an odd mixture of fast fumblings and delicate caresses. And when he finally had John's vest off he hesitated, eyes flickering from John's chest to a place rather lower and then back again, hands just grazing John's ribs. John took pity on him and undid his own fly, grabbed Sherlock's hand and brought it down, watching Sherlock's face as it took in this new sensory data, beautiful mouth shaping into an erotic 'oh,' and it was really the last straw for John, he had to feel Sherlock now. He pushed his hand into Sherlock's pants, gripped softly but firmly, swiped a careful thumb over the leaking head, wondered what it would taste like. For later, he thought. 

He leaned forward and kissed along Sherlock's collarbone, sucking and biting in time with the careful strokes of his hand. Sherlock was a wreck on top of him, gasping and moaning barely able to control his movements. When he finally began to reciprocate he was clearly unpracticed and following John's lead, but it hardly mattered, since he was clearly bringing to the endeavor his characteristic focus and precision, as well as a talent for improvisation, and John had never been more turned on, and they were both still in their pants, on the sofa, and nothing could be hotter.

Their movements quickened, and John gave up kissing Sherlock as Sherlock leaned down to rest their foreheads together, breath quickened and halting, and then Sherlock was coming, shoulders jerking, and John was right behind him, spilling all over Sherlock's hand and bringing his own wet hands up to grip Sherlock's waist as his orgasm pulsed through him. 

They remained like that for a moment, panting, just holding each other, before Sherlock slowly slid off John to sit next to him, shoulder to shoulder. John looked over at him only to see Sherlock looking back, eyes filled with wonder.

“John,” he said, and, God, his voice... John wanted to be able to hear Sherlock's voice that way every day.

“Yeah, Sherlock?”

“The next time we go anywhere...” Sherlock's mouth quirked upward in a devious grin, and he reached over to touch John's bare side. “I'll tell everyone that you're actually my date. And you'll no longer be allowed to pull out that 'not-gay' nonsense.”

John grinned, and could his heart really expand any further?

“Please do,” he replied, and as far as new beginnings go, this was really the best.


End file.
